


He

by Apparentlynotreallyfinnish



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Magical Realism, Pining, Spirits, ghost - Freeform, i'm not sure, or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29161935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apparentlynotreallyfinnish/pseuds/Apparentlynotreallyfinnish
Summary: The only thingheknows is thathe’sa he.Hedoesn’t rememberhisname.Hedoesn’t remember howhegot here.Hedoesn’t even really know whyhecan’t leave.
Relationships: Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal
Comments: 15
Kudos: 47





	He

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karsata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karsata/gifts).



The only thing _he_ knows is that _he’s_ a he. _He_ doesn’t remember _his_ name. _He_ doesn’t remember how _he_ got here. _He_ doesn’t even really know why _he_ can’t leave. 

So, _he_ watches. 

Every morning _he_ watches the man get out of bed. Watches him eat breakfast. Even watches him shower. _He_ didn’t follow the man into the bathroom at first. It felt like an invasion of privacy. But after a few years, it didn’t seem such a big deal anymore. What else was _he_ but an invader?

 _He_ watches the man leave for work. Then, _he_ waits. The days are long and lonely. Time stretches into unimaginable lengths until it finally snaps back to normal when _he_ can hear the key turning in the lock.

 _He_ watches the man settle down after work. Watches him order something in. Watches him eat. Watches a movie with him or a show. Waits for him to laugh. The man’s laugh is the closest thing _he_ gets to feeling something physical. It’s almost like _he_ can feel its vibrations, can imagine it warming his soul. 

Is that what _he_ is? A soul? _He’s_ not sure.

 _He_ watches the man get ready for bed. Sometimes _he_ watches him satisfy a need. _He’d_ blush if _he_ could. _He’d_ get aroused if he could. _He_ almost feels like _he_ can. _He_ watches the man sleep.

This is _his_ non-life. Him. Every day, it’s him. And _he’s_ afraid of the day the man will move away and _he’ll_ have to watch someone else.

 _He_ doesn’t know how long _he’s_ been in this house. It’s an old house, that’s for sure. The stairs creak and bow under the man’s feet. The wallpaper peels and curls at the edges. There are birds living in the attic. It gets cold in the winter and the man takes out a heater that gleams red-hot in the corner of his bedroom. 

Those are _his_ favorite nights. _He_ settles onto the bed next to the man, close enough that _he_ can imagine feeling the man’s breath on _his_ face. The heater masks the cold that seeps from _him_. _He_ knows it’s uncomfortable for the man; sometimes _he_ accidentally gets too close and he shivers, puts on a sweater.

 _He_ doesn’t want the man to feel cold. Or sad. Or disappointed. Or lonely.

Sometimes _he_ wonders if ghosts can feel love. It’s something you feel in your body, but mostly, it’s in the soul, isn’t it?

 _He_ thinks _he_ loves the man.

 _He_ loves Link.

——

One morning, Link leaves his favorite coffee cup precariously on the edge of the counter. _He_ sees the disaster happening even before it does. A small nudge from an elbow and the cup is falling. Without thinking, _he_ reaches for it. Link turns with a start and sees the cup hanging in midair. 

_He_ panics and lets go. The cup continues its fall and cracks in two, spilling the coffee all over the kitchen floor.

 _He_ hadn’t known _he_ could do that.

Later, when Link’s at work, _he_ tries again. And again. And again. It’s hard. It drains _him_. _He_ feels wispy and more than incorporeal for the rest of the day. But _he_ doesn’t care. _He’ll_ keep practicing. _He_ has a plan.

Things lost under the couch and behind dressers start appearing on Link’s bedside table. He goes to sleep and in the morning, his clothes are waiting for him, neatly draped over the back of a chair. A forgotten DVD-case is returned to its rightful place on the shelf. The laundry is sorted into blacks and whites when he comes home from work. His spice cabinet is rearranged alphabetically. It’s small things at first. Things Link can easily explain away.

That’s what _he_ thinks at least, until one morning when Link places a coffee cup on the edge of the counter and stares at it intently. _He_ watches too, mesmerized by Link’s concentration, blue eyes attentive and hopeful. Suddenly, Link whips out a hand and swipes the mug off the counter.

Instinctively, _he_ catches it and sets it back on the counter.

Link stares at the mug with wide eyes and a slack jaw. The surprise slowly morphs into a disbelieving grin. His gaze searches the air in front of him. Searches for _him_. Link raises his hand tentatively, fingers trembling. 

_He_ moves closer, pulled forward by the need to touch, to feel, to communicate, to reach beyond the veil.

Link snatches his hand away and rubs it against his stomach. “Cold,” he murmurs. But then, he perks up and reaches again. 

_Warm. So warm. Alive._

Link smiles, beams in fact.

“There you are,” he says softly. “Hi.”

_Hi._

——

Link starts talking to _him_. He even waits for a reply and goes on as if he’s heard it.

“How about a movie night tonight?” he asks, cocks his head as if he’s listening and then smiles. “Great!”

Popcorn pops in the microwave as Link lays three movies on the coffee table.

“Which one do you wanna watch?” he asks, staring at the movies, hands on his waist.

 _He_ looks at the covers and nudges one. Link beams.

“Awesome choice! That’s what I wanted to watch too.”

 _He_ beams as well. _He_ has no lips to smile with, but his whole being is a ball of light and love and happiness.

Weeks go by. Then months. 

Link still talks to him. They have a system. There’s little post-it notes all over the house with words on them. 

[Yes]

[No]

[Maybe]

[I don’t know]

[I like that]

[I hate that]

[When?]

And so on. There are also a few with badly drawn emojis. A smiley face. A sad one. An angry one. A sleepy one. 

_He_ flicks at the notes to talk with Link. It doesn’t take too much energy. It’s perfect.

Link’s asked for his name. _He_ still doesn’t know. _He_ had one once. _He_ knows that much. Link keeps calling him different names. Mark. Samuel. Harvey. Greg. Ollie. Peter. Ronald. Emmett. _He_ has a feeling that if Link gets it right, _he’ll_ know. So far, none of them have felt right.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get it one day,” Link consoles _him_ one night after _he’s_ gotten frustrated and made all the post-it notes fly off of the fridge door. Link crouches down to pick them up and _he_ feels bad. 

_He_ finds the one _he_ needs and picks it up from the floor, sets it on the counter. 

[Sorry] 

Link smiles when he sees it, but there is sadness in his eyes. _He_ watches Link stick the post-its back onto the fridge and then _he_ flicks two of them.

[Why?] [ :( ]

Link sighs and sits down on the bar stool. 

“I just—” he starts and pauses. His hand rises and he threads his fingers through his hair. _He_ drifts closer, wants to touch his hair too. Wants to feel the silky strands between _his_ nonexistent fingers. Link shivers and _he_ backs away. 

“Sometimes I wish…” Link sighs. “You know what? Forget it. It’s not important. Wanna watch a movie?” 

[No]

[Why?]

Link stares at the post-its. _He_ sees anguish in his features and it makes _him_ ache.

[Please]

Link’s lips quirk into a tiny smile. He looks out the window, but it seems that he’s not really seeing the backyard. He’s looking inside, into his memories.

“There’s a name… I’m afraid to say it. Because if it’s not you—” Link’s swallows hard and lets out a hollow laugh. “It’s _not_ you. I _know_ it’s not. Why would it be? How could it—”

 _He’s_ confused.

[Please]

Link shakes his head, a tear glistening in the corner of his eye, stubborn enough not to flow.

“I think I’m gonna go to bed. I’m tired,” he mumbles.

 _He_ bristles.

[ >:( ]

But Link’s already gone from the kitchen. _He_ follows, annoyed and perplexed. Link knows something. Something _he_ doesn’t.

_Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me._

As if thinking the words enough could somehow manifest them for Link to see or hear. 

Link brushes his teeth.

_Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me._

Link takes a quick shower. 

_Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me._

Link crawls into his bed. _He_ follows, ignores Link’s shivers and whines, and settles next to him, trying to freeze out the secret Link keeps.

“Stop that!” Link yelps and tries to inch away from _him_ , wrapping the blanket tighter around himself to escape the chill of _his_ unbeing. 

_Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me._

“ _Tell me!_ ”

They both freeze. Time stands still.

Then, Link’s eyes fill with tears. _He_ panics. _He_ tries to reach for Link, comfort him. _He_ doesn’t understand. Link should be glad, happy, elated that _he_ can speak!

But a sob shakes out of Link’s chest and he gasps out a word. Just one word.

“Rhett?”

 _Rhett? His_ mind feels like it’s rushing through a pinhole. Everything concentrates on this one word. A name. _His_ name. 

_Yes._

And with that, the air in the bedroom turns frigid. Link’s breath comes out in visible puffs as he pulls his arm from under the covers. 

Reaching for Link is instinctive, requires no thought. And while it’s always useless, _he_ still does it. It doesn’t even occur to _him_ that it could work, so for a moment, _he’s_ confused about the hand reaching for Link’s. 

The foreign hand seems to be made of mist and snowflakes, trembling just as hard as Link’s.

“It _is_ you,” Link whispers, tears streaming down his cheeks and turning into small ice crystals, falling onto the pillow. 

Ever so slowly, their fingers intertwine. As the warm skin touches the ghostly, cool one something shatters. The room, the house, the city, the country, the world around them rocks and rumbles. They both groan loudly. _He_ feels a pull so strong it takes _his_ breath away.

His _breath_.

He can breathe!

He’s back.


End file.
